Possession
by magdalenrose
Summary: Tom Riddle reappears in Harry's sixth year, and power, loyalty, and sex intertwine. Draco gueststars. Slash.


**Possession**

by Magdalen-Rose

Riddle/Harry/Draco; rated M for aggressive sex.

_Note: Characters have been dragged kicking and screaming from J.K. Rowling's imagination into mine. I make no claim of ownership, and they deeply resent me for my imposition. Draco is currently sulking in a corner and glaring at me._

He much preferred having a body. He forgot what it was like, in between corporeal times; he grew used to swirling about unnoticed, impotent in his abstraction. When he'd first come back, he'd been angry, and he stretched into that anger, into the luxury of having fists to crash into things and feet that made noise when he stamped them, and a mouth that could turn up at one corner, because he was, after all, a sixteen-year-old boy when he became incarnated, and he tended to act like one.

Which is why he'd reacted the way he did when he stalked into the Room of Requirements, with the intention of transporting himself to wherever Harry Potter was and killing him quickly and painfully, and instead found him pressed up against the wall kissing Draco Malfoy.

He'd done it a bit clumsily; he didn't remember quite how his feet worked, and then he'd had to struggle to stop growling as he pulled the boys apart, remember how hard he had to clamp his hands down on the slim brown-haired boy's shoulder to pull him away from the pale and lordly pureblood. And forgotten a bit how the sight of Malfoy's flushed mouth and triumphant eyes made his heart – he could feel it acutely, in three dimensions, that was a side effect of being new to embodiment – how it made his heart squeeze, how it hurt when that happened and the blood rushed around inside him.

Potter had tumbled sideways and was slowly passing the back of his hand over his mouth. It had been four years since he'd seen this boy, and the last image he had of him was of a white-hot, screaming explosion, and then silence. He looked smaller; not only because Harry himself was taller but because his imagination had had four years to go over the terror of that encounter, and increase it.

The pact with Malfoy had been _no magic_. Once a week, in a little space the Room conjured up for them that didn't actually exist – because there was nothing more convenient when you needed privacy than to play with the borders of reality, and they'd argued it was within the rules until the Room agreed to it – no magic, no books, and no telling. They tangled and bit and sweated and occasionally Harry would come out the winner and occasionally Draco would, and that had still been true after they started pulling each other's clothes off and tangling in quite a different way that didn't really feel that different, after all.

And now through the deceptively simple method of Riddle needing to be "where Potter is," they'd been found out. _Actually_, Harry managed to think through the white panic that gripped his mind as he realised _no magic_ meant his wand was still stashed under his pillow, _it's amazing we haven't been caught before now._

"Well. This is a surprise."

"I believe you have something of mine, Malfoy," Riddle said.

The Potter boy was taller than he'd been, and his face was thinner. There was an angularity to his body that hadn't been there the last time, and Riddle winced briefly as he looked at Potter's long fingers and remembered them clutched around a serpent's tooth and plunging into the book that held his body, the black blood running over the worn leather cover.

This time, he'd made sure the book was kept under lock and key. It was identical to its predecessor, filled with Tom's schoolboy scrawl and taken six months ago from the shelf where the old one had been kept. Only this time Lucius Malfoy hadn't had to count on a little girl's whingeing insecurity and the superstition of a bunch of befuddled magicians. He'd only had to count on his son.

_Only long enough to let him kill Potter. You'll be perfectly safe the whole time._ Draco had nodded to his father and tucked the book under his arm, spending the first week of school glancing up at Potter and glancing away, throwing out the provocative first line and refusing to rise to a fight, and feeding the disembodied wizard with six years' worth of venom.

And it wasn't as though he'd had much choice in the matter. There had been a pact with his father and Voldemort, too – _deliver the boy to him at the appointed time, and in return, you get to live_.

So here they were, Draco with his tie pulled half undone and the top two buttons of his shirt open, and Potter trying to remember if there were any secret doors back to the real world – _just us, Potter, no tricks and no telling and no strangers_ – and Riddle trying to remember whether it was just his newly incarnate memory or something more savage and dangerous that was making his half-focused eyes linger on the broad sweep of Potter's shoulders and the smooth line of his neck.

He could tell he was faltering, even as he did it, could tell that he should have moved by now. Could tell that there was a difference between torturing your prey and being unable to move. Potter had started breathing again, had taken a step towards him, and he hadn't pounced.

And Draco saw it, damn him, he saw it and slowly slowly smiled at Riddle as he threw one arm out without looking and grabbed Potter by the tie, pulling him in and kissing him without changing his expression.

Harry hooked his finger into Draco's belt loop and tried desperately to think of a way out, tried to strategise or see the situation from a different angle, but all he could do was hang on in this present moment, in the slow and insolent circling of Draco's hips against his, and to realise, second by second, _I am not dead, I am not dead, I am not dead_, until it echoed and howled in his brain.

And Riddle didn't know which one he hated more, as he came to stand behind Potter and kiss the back of his neck, not letting go of Draco's eye over Potter's shoulder – Draco's lazy defiance, just behind his eyes, or Potter's elusive strength, just below his skin.

Harry could feel the other boy's body lining itself up against his. It was still taller and broader than his, but the distinction was subtler now. A slight thrill ran through him –_ I have grown stronger and you have stayed the same_ – but it was gone in an instant as he bent his head under the press of Riddle's mouth on his neck, the scrape of his teeth, and leaned his forehead on Draco's shoulder, for stability.

"Mine," he growled into the smooth skin of Harry's throat, and on some desperate impulse, Harry pulled Draco's hands away and turned to face Riddle, lips parted, neck bared.

Draco almost hissed as he pulled Harry back towards him, tugging his shirt out of his trousers and sliding his hands up Harry's stomach, spreading them across his chest.

"Come and take him then," Malfoy growled.

Harry closed his eyes and arched under Riddle's kiss; it bent him back against Draco, who stumbled to catch him, it pushed his lips against his teeth and cut off his breathing, and Draco's grip on his chest tightened as he fell.

"Stand up, Potter," he whispered, lightly stroking his way down to Harry's navel, over the curved arch of his stomach, fingernails pressing into the skin. Harry groaned at the touch, at the hot tightening in his trousers in response to it, at the liquid velvet of Draco's mouth over the back of his neck as Riddle took his mouth again, then slowly kissed a trail over Harry's cheek and brushed aside a lock of hair to suck hungrily at the scar on his forehead.

"_Mine_."

Something reeled and fell in the back of Harry's mind, and he remembered suddenly the shy glance over Draco's books, the way Draco had lingered over his exhausted body one week and left a small kiss in the damp hollow at the small of his back. How Draco had looked not defiant but complicit as Harry had pinned his wrists against the wall one time, and the slow, aching way he'd gasped as Harry had teasingly sucked him off.

In any normal time, he would have been wary, would have remembered that a Slytherin cannot become something else but can very easily appear to have. But now he was grappling every second for his life, caught and balanced between the tense bodies of two boys who could kill him

He threw his head back against Draco's shoulder and closed his eyes, and gasped as the hands of both boys grappled together over his shirt. The dark-haired boy and the blond one stared at each other as they pulled the fabric away from Harry's shoulders, exposing the freckles around his collarbone and the slender sweep of his stomach.

The sight of Harry's body, flagrantly exposed, slick with sweat, hips slung forward against Tom Riddle's trousers, made Draco's cheeks hot and his breath come short. Harry unexpectedly smiled up at Tom, trailed the tip of his finger over Riddle's slightly parted mouth, and whispered, "kill me before or not at all."

There was a second's pause, and Riddle's hand went to his belt; Draco saw the glint of metal, then the knife was out and coming towards Potter and Draco had his hand over Potter's mouth and was pulling his head back and stumbling against the wall, the full weight of Potter's body slamming against him as they fell, and he was half-kissing half-tearing at Potter's shoulders and back as Harry reached up and grasped the wrist of the hand with the knife and held on for his life. The other hand was braced against the floor; if it moved, Tom would fall and lose whatever leverage he had left.

Draco hooked one leg around Potter's and had his hand under his arm – Harry was locked in place, ready for slaughter, and could feel nothing but the slightly awkward body of Tom above him, coiled and ready to spring, and the tangled limbs of Draco behind him.

"Drop the knife," Malfoy growled.

"What are you going to do, Draco? Bite me?" Tom sneered, and half-pulled his hand away from Potter, who uttered a small mewing cry, wriggled, and then was still as Draco pushed him back down against the floor.

"I'll stop writing. You'll be stranded half-real and at my mercy."

"You couldn't," Tom whispered. "Because that book is the only place where you win every time, isn't it? I absorb everything you write, Malfoy, every lie and every half-true fantasy, and I can smell the sickly sweetness in my own blood."

"Drop the knife." Harry had never heard that edge to Draco's voice before. It was a wild thing in the back of that cultured, lordly voice, a thing that threatened to come out roaring of death and blood, a thing that he believed, as soon as he heard it, that Tom would have no choice but to obey.

The knife clattered to the ground, and Malfoy let Harry go and sprang forward to pick it up. Harry instinctively made a dive towards the door back to the real world, and found suddenly that nobody was trying to stop him.

"Get out of here," Draco said, in the same voice. "Until next time."

There was a silence after he left, a moment filled with the strange whiteness and shadows of the imaginary room, and then Draco spoke in a near-whisper that seemed to slither.

"If you kill him, you've got no reason to keep coming back here. And anyway, I can't ignore the distinct possibility that if I save his life enough times, he might end up one day killing _you_."

"Malfoy –"

"On the other hand, I can't exactly let him _win_, can I? It's a delicate balancing act."

He moved gently to stand in front of Tom, so he could feel his breath.

"Half-breed," Malfoy said, slippery and low. He gripped Tom's chin in one hand, and the knife in the other. "How many books have you got left?"

He paused in the doorway, glanced over his shoulder at Tom, smiled, slowly lifted the knife to his mouth, and let his tongue slide over its glistening length.

"Here's to next time."


End file.
